“Papa!” I cried; “papa!”
“Hey!” he responded; “is that all?”
“Do you not remember your little Diana?” I implored, in an ecstasy of emotion.
“Wait,” he said, and put a hand to his forehead. “It may be on my notes. I’ve a damned bad memory.”
The door of a room hard by stood open. He led me in, closed it, and seated himself officially at a table.
“Now,” he said, “what mother?”
The shock, my friend! I had remembered him so strong and gallant—wicked, if you will; but then I had always pictured myself the cherished pledge of his wickedness. And now, it appeared, I was only one of a large family. Without a word, I turned my back upon him.
“Don’t go,” he said, disturbed at that. “What name did you say?”
I confronted him once more, sorrow and disdain battling in my face.
“I said Diana.”